2 Human
by Curse Pen
Summary: There is no right and wrong, good and bad. Only the Survivors and the Infected. Four people traverse the wastes, looking for salvation. Can they hold onto what was, or will they become what they fight. Rated for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Please note that this is Mature content. Coarse language will appear, gore and blood will be apparent and other mature events may occur. This is a fair warning to all of what is lying ahead. However, I hope to convey the fact that this is done solely to maintain the characters and the current situation. I frown upon gratuitous swearing and other such language. Thank you for understanding.**

**_I do not have much to say. Read, Review, Critque. If enough people like this, I will continue this. If no one reviews, I might still write it out, but it will be a lot slower. Thank you._**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Left 4 Dead._ Once I am not lazy enough to actually look up who do get the cudos for this superb game, I will create a much better disclaimer. Until that day comes, bear with me. I DO NOT OWN _LEFT 4 DEAD_. Thank you.**

**A Day on Earth**

The night was warm and sickly, like a body fighting disease. Thunder rumbled in the distant corners of the city, a skipping rain already spitting down at the deserted streets. Lightning flashed here and there in the night, telling of the approaching storm, unaware that the tempest was already loose.

It started slowly, at least at first. The change was slow, and often painful. But as the mind lost track of all but the hunger, the pain faded too. So did the memory. The memory of speech, of home, of family.

Of morality.

Then Hell broke loose.

* * *

Bill had to say that it was not wise to wish for things. He had retired from the Army Rangers after Vietnam. The retired life had not been his place though. He was a man of action and war. A killer, like all soldiers were. He had nightmares about friends dying, over and over, and a part of him wished for the action again, if only to try and repay those he had failed to save, who had died so that he might live.

So he had wished for some action. Not on a shooting star or anything, just a little thought that grew and grew and eventually mumbled around his cigarette after a can of baked beans while sitting on his couch cleaning his old military pistol.

He knew that is was impossible for him to have started the whole thing. But that did not mean he now found retirement very appeasing.

The old veteran now sat on a new couch, cleaning a more reliable, modern, M16. He glanced at the pistol on his leg and nodded in satisfaction. Clean and ready to go.

He stood and looked at the young man sitting by the door. The man — Louis — was African American, average height with the build that told of athletics in his younger days. He wore what had been a crisp business suit, blazer and all. Now it was a dirty shirt and tie, the blazer cast aside with blood stains covering it. Thankfully, the blood was not Louis'.

"Up and at 'em, boy," Bill said, chewing on his cigarette. "This place is better than Hell, but it'll be coming soon enough."

Louis blinked a few times at Bill, not really seeing him. Survivor's guilt coupled with shock and adrenaline. Bill had seen it more than a few times.

Bill had heard it from the news stations, as he was prone to watch TV in the evening now. The rash of colds and stomach bugs. A new disease that made you perpetually hungry, coupled with loss of memory and numerous other problems. All mundane though. The news anchors had a good laugh about it, joking about how the medical field was going downhill. That had been four days ago. No one was laughing now.

"Bill?" Louis asked, his voice faint.

"Yeah, boy?"

"Do you get used to it?"

Bill knew what he meant. Killing was something you never got used to; unless you were insane from the get go. "No. But you stomach it because you have to. Don't get soft on me now, Louis. It's them or us, just remember that."

"Yeah… I guess."

Bill knew what Louis was struggling with. He had been holed up in an apartment with his friends, all terrified by the death howling outside. Bill had been moving from room to room in the apartment block, looking for others when he heard them. The screams.

Louis and his friend had been the only ones not Infected when Bill got there. The girl — Bill didn't want to ask the name — had been torn apart. Bill had to support a horrified Louis. Horror is a great motivator, though, as is terror.

Louis turned out to be a pretty natural shot with a pistol.

The thunder rumbled again and a low moan rose from the streets in answer. Bill walked over to the window and looked out. "They're gathering."

"What?" Louis ran to the window and looked out, too.

Bill wondered for a moment what the Infected thought, how they thought. Because he had noted something in just the first few days. He'd never been one for psychology, but he remembered a young Private talking about it. Something about how humans were social creatures, that they had to have others to remain sane.

Bill wondered if the Infected were the same. They gathered at times, running, shambling, jogging, crawling, but always toward a certain point. He didn't know why, and he didn't care, except that they congregated in the hundreds. And while the Infected were not the most resilient enemies, their sheer numbers were threatening.

The thunder came again, louder than before, and the mob below began growling and moaning.

"They're getting agitated," Bill muttered. "Come on, Louis. We better get going."

"Going where?" Louis followed Bill out of the apartment and across the way, entering another home and exiting via the fire escape the other side. "Where can we go?"

"Right now I am working short term." Bill pointed to a small island just off the coast in the bay of the city, connected by a single bridge. "That's as safe as anything for the moment."

"A prison?"

"You got a better idea?"

"But they're convicts," Louis protested. "They won't help us."

"We're all in this together. It's not Black or White, American or Iraqi, poor or rich. This is Humanity versus them, the Infected. I, for one, want to be on the winning side." Bill arranged his beret and chewed on a cigarette. "And ten to one, so do they."

* * *

Zoey had to say that she had not expected this when she woke up. She had not expected the campus security to be having a gunfight in the grounds. She had not expected hordes of zombies to be the targets. She had not expected running through blood soaked halls, dragging her roommate, Alexia, behind her, to get out of the building with more zombies swarming the dorms.

Zoey had definitely not expected to be saved by two men who looked like they'd just got out of prison.

"Come on," yelled one — a tough looking biker with a shaved head and dark goatee, tattoos on his arms, and a shotgun in his hands. "Hurry it up, ladies."

"Francis," the other yelled, a little worry in his voice as his own shotgun blasted down ten of the zombies. "There are an awful lot of them."

"I know. Hurry it up, Girly."

"Like a hundred."

"I know, Cutter."

"Maybe two hundred… no pressure though."

"Shut it, Cutter!"

Zoey and Alexia skidded to a stop next to the jeep the men occupied. Zoey threw Alexia in the back seat and jumped into the driver's seat.

"Hey," Francis shouted. "This is my car."

"Shut up and shoot them," Zoey ordered. "This is no time to get picky over who drives."

"She has a point, Francis."

"I thought I told you to shut it, Cutter," Francis yelled, aiming at the other man.

Cutter didn't even wince as the shotgun blasted a zombie into its component parts behind him. "Thanks, Frankie."

"Cutter…"

"Shut it, I know."

There was not a lot of time for talking after that as Zoey stepped on the gas, making Francis and Cutter fall backward into their seats. Zoey plowed through a swarm of the things — men and women from the campus and the rest of the city — and then they were on the freeway, the howls and moans fading behind them.

Francis struggled into a sitting position and settled into the seat. "Hey, you planning to let off of the lead foot anytime soon?"

Zoey glanced from the road to him and then at the speedometer. She was doing eighty miles an hour in a thirty zone. Of course, there was no one else on the road.

"Why?" she asked belligerently. "I think it's a good idea to put as much distance between them and us as possible."

"Yeah, it is, but the other cars — keep an eye on the road!" Francis lunged for the wheel, threw them around a crashed truck and back around the other side in time to avoid another stalled car. "That's why."

Zoey released the gas pedal from the crushing force of her foot and slammed on the brake instead. Alexia squealed as she was thrown into the back of Zoey's seat. Cutter swore as he flipped over the trunk space into the back seats — he'd been sitting on the divider looking for pursuit. Francis was more eloquent, swearing profusely as he slammed into the windshield.

"Shit, girl! What the hell was that for?"

Zoey ignored him and turned to Alexia. "Alex? You alright?"

"Is she alright?" Francis spluttered, sniffing through the blood on his face. He'd smashed his nose on the glass. "What about me?"

Zoey looked at him. "I don't know your name, you call me 'hey, girl,' and you think it is smart to take the wheel from a forty-five degree angle. Answer that and I might start caring about what happened to your nose."

Francis bolted to his feet, promptly lost his balance and fell out of the jeep. Zoey ignored the swearing and looked back at Alexia. "You okay?" she asked.

Alexia nodded, but her eyes were wide and her lips trembled. Zoey put it down to shock. She took off her raincoat and wrapped it around Alexia's shoulders — leaving Zoey in her pink sweater — and then she turned back to the two men. She jumped.

Cutter smirked two inches away from her face. "Hell-o." Then he snickered.

"You're lucky I didn't punch you in the face."

"And you two are lucky me and Francis were passing by."

"With a pair of shotguns?"

"Tough neighborhood," Cutter said. "Nowadays a least. Guy tried to rob me yesterday."

"Really?" Zoey asked, thinking that anyone crazy enough to try and rob a pair like this had to have a death wish. Of course, she was currently conversing with one and nowhere near any possible help, so what did that make her?

"Yeah. Tried to eat my arm."

Zoey felt her eyes widen. She had not expected that.

"I think Frankie needs your help, girly." Cutter grinned again.

"My name is Zoey."

"Nice to meet you, Zoey."

"Yeah, just fucking great," Francis muttered dabbing at his nose. "Okay, Zoey, in the back. I'm driving. You've proved that women suck at driving."

"I was doing fine."

"No. No, you were not."

Cutter grabbed Zoey's arm and hoisted her into the back. He jumped into the driver's seat and shoved Francis down into the passenger seat. "Frankie… be a good boy and get your nose clean. Then you can have a sweetie."

"Cutter, I am seriously this close to punching you in the face and leaving you for the zombies."

"I'm, like, this close to, like, punching you in the, ya know, like, the face," Cutter said, gunning the engine.

Francis flattened into his seat. "Next chance I get, I am so kicking your ass."

"Good luck with that."

Zoey glanced at Alexia — who seemed alright if a bit scared — and then leaned between the front seats. "Here, let me see."

"What?" Francis asked, sniffing.

"Not broken," Zoey said, taking his face and gently touching his nose. He swore. "But it will hurt for the next day or two. Just a burst blood vessel."

"Thank you, Doctor PhD," Francis snarled, jerking away from Zoey's careful fingers.

Zoey ignored him and looked at Cutter. It had been so hectic a minute or so ago, and while she knew it was only adrenaline keeping her going at this point, Cutter and Francis looked like they were actually having fun.

"Where are we going?" Zoey asked, noting they were heading deeper into the city.

"Where we set up a base camp," Cutter said and then cocked a thumb toward the back. "We didn't come for survivors, you know."

Zoey looked in the back. Bags of canned food, boxes of what looked like ammo and a couple of odds and ends like rags, PVC pipe and…

"Smoke detectors?"

"Hey," Francis said, turning in his seat to look at her. "Those zombies or whatever they are, love noise. Real loud annoying noises. Smoke detectors make great diversions. We all carry one or two."

"'We all?'" Zoey echoed. "Who?"

"Our ex-inmates," Cutter supplied.

Zoey froze. "You're convicts?"

"Ex-convicts," Cutter said, shaking a finger at her. "I got parole last week and Francis a month ago. We shared a cell and became the best of friends." Cutter looped an arm around Francis' shoulder.

"Get off," Francis snarled, shrugging the arm away.

Zoey backed up in her seat a bit, wondering if she would survive a jump out of a moving vehicle. Cutter unnerved her again by voicing her thoughts.

"You might survive jumping, Zoey, but you would not last long without a gun. A firearm is probably the only language they understand anymore." He turned around and smirked. "Besides, I killed those guys four years ago. I'm not a psycho."

"Hey, Psycho," Francis bellowed. "Eyes on the road."

Cutter turned back in time to skid around a corner. "And Frankie is even better than me. He's only an arsonist. Never killed anyone."

"Stop calling me Frankie!"

"Of course, if grouchiness was a crime, Francis would get life."

"Shut your fucking mouth, Cutter, before I make you."

"Oh, language, Francis. There are ladies present."

* * *

Zoey kept a firm grip on Alexia's arm as they walked through the parking lot of the prison, Cutter and Francis flanking them, shotguns still held tight in hands.

"So," Zoey asked, quietly. "The inmates are now the jailors?"

"What? No," Francis growled. "But don't touch anyone."

"Why?"

"Sometimes they change. Its always fast, the change," Cutter murmured. "Friends turn into arm chewing enemies faster than you can say Deoxyribonucleic Acid."

Francis raised an eyebrow.

"What? A murderer can't have a good vocabulary?"

"Why the hell would you need a good vocabulary?"

"Impress the ladies."

Francis didn't bother to hide his laugh in a cough or sneeze. He broke down laughing, clutching his side. "You are one crazy son of a —"

A sudden scream drowned Francis out. Alexia squeaked, too scared to even scream herself. Zoey slid in front of her friend and faced the shriek. Cutter was already running toward a pair of struggling bodies.

"Hey," he yelled, bringing the gun's butt into one man's rib, launching him off. "Human's off the menu."

Zoey clenched her eyes shut as the shotgun went off, but she still heard the sickly splatter.

She opened her eyes to see Cutter aim a pistol at the downed man's face and pull the trigger. She couldn't turn away in time to miss seeing the head come apart like a melon.

She felt her bile rise and forced it down.

Alexia turned and threw up.

"Oh, nice," Cutter said, humorously. "Come on," he said, slipping the pistol into its makeshift holster and slinging the shotgun onto his back. He wrapped an arm around Alexia and practically carried her across the yard.

Zoey was forced to stay with Francis — who had gripped her arm — and watched her friend go with a murderer.

"What do you want?" she snarled at Francis.

"She's fine with him," the man said, sober. "Better to stay together." He dragged her over to the two dead men.

"You're scared?" Zoey asked, incredulous.

"No. Just a precaution." Francis kicked the body of the one who had been on top. "We've been getting more of these. Jump and scream then claw your throat out."

"Was killing the other guy necessary?"

"Yeah." Francis turned away and took her arm, leading her into the prison hall. "Don't know how they get in. The ones they attack have a high chance of changing so killing them sooner puts us out of danger." He glanced at her. "And puts them out of their misery."

"So if you get cut by the… the infected, you are going to change?"

"No. I don't think so. Some of us have immunity to it, I think. Before we knew what they could do, I got cut up bad. You don't see me going for your throat."

"So it's like rabies."

Francis snorted. "Yeah. A really, really bad case of rabies."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Sorry for the unforgivable gap in updates. I have no excuses. But it is here. And a third is coming. And maybe a fourth and fifth and so on a so forth. Now, why are you reading this and not my story? Read and Review._******

**The Survivors**

Zoey sat across from Cutter, never taking her eyes off him. He wasn't watching her, just playing idly with the mess they called food, but he wasn't even watching that. His bright blue eyes were staring at Alexia, who was sleeping in the corner.

Zoey scooped some peas onto her spoon and flicked them at Cutter. He jumped and the pistol was already out of its holster and pointed at her before he seemed to notice the motion. Just as fast it was returned.

"You seem jumpy," Zoey said, shaking a little from the realization of how close she had come to having her head opened by a .45 caliber bullet.

Cutter shrugged.

"Your name isn't really Cutter, is it?"

"Nope."

"Not that talkative now, either."

"One thing at a time." His eyes darted from their vigil for a second before returning to the dozing form. "My name is Cutter McCarthy. Cutter is not my given name, but no one knows what is."

"Embarrassed?"

"You're a smart girl. Don't let it get around."

"Why do you keep looking at Alex?"

"I like her."

Zoey raised an eyebrow. "We are in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and you think you can… what? Have your way with her? Because if you think that, I am going to have to beat the crap out of you."

"Ah, the overprotective big sister syndrome." Cutter smirked. "I love a challenge."

Zoey sneered. "You are a pervert."

"Wrong. I'm thinking ahead. But, admittedly, I don't have much of a chance. Murderer, remember. Even if I got off light because it was self defense, I still killed someone. Four some-ones." He shoveled a bit of food into his mouth and then nodded at her. "You a med student or something? I know Xion College is a medical place."

"Yeah, I'm a med student."

"And your friend? Alex?"

"She's a bit too squeamish to be a doctor or surgeon. She wants to go into pediatrics."

Cutter nodded as if this were a very wise choice. "No idea what that means."

"She wants to help kids."

"Ah." Cutter glanced from Zoey to Alexia and back. "That's too bad."

"What's too bad?" Zoey asked.

"You have to pull your weight. Unless you know how to fix a generator or rough it urban style, your only other choice is a gunner, and you'll need that anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

Cutter ignored her. "Otherwise you'll be nothing worth keeping. Except you're girls, so that will save you from being tossed. Won't save you from the other monsters in here. Murder is the least violence one can do to another. At least my victims aren't scarred for life. Only for death." He snickered.

Zoey's eyes narrowed, trying to hide a twinge of nervousness. "That a threat?"

"A warning. I'm not a rapist. Neither is Francis. A decent amount of people in here are not that bad once you get to know them. But there are those few that are just short a few marbles and unless you prove to be a resource worth maintaining, all of them are going to 'have their way with you' — as you so delicately put it — and then you'll be tossed. If you're lucky, the Infected will get you before too long."

Zoey swallowed hard. "But… but what about the government? The police? Eventually they'll come and—"

Cutter gave her a sympathetic smile. "Zoey, they came. Didn't you see the news? An entire battalion tried to enter the city to help evac. Not a single one survived. Torn apart or Infected. The stuff has spread like you wouldn't believe. Nothing is left. There is no government, no law. It is kill or be killed, hunt or be hunted. Survival of the fittest, but it's not just that anymore, either. It's the most ruthless, the one who can shoot straight and fast. They'll live. People like you are not needed. Medical attention does not help. You get cut up, you get killed. By them or your friends. It's the best thing." He stabbed his fork into the foam tray. "Human and Infected. There's nothing else. We have to stick together. Strength in numbers, right. The Infected got that down pat."

Zoey glanced at Alexia. "There's no way she can handle a gun. She's never killed a fly. Hell, she can't even slap a vulgar advance off a guy's face without my help."

Cutter followed her eyes. "You're a good friend, you know? If I had Francis as a buddy before I came here, I don't think I would have killed those guys. Friends can help you out of a lot of jams, steer you away from mistakes. Look, if you trust me to, I'll keep an eye on her. And you never know. Stress can be a cruel, yet effective, teacher." Cutter nodded to the door. "Come on. I'll take you out to Francis. He's helping watch the barricade. You can stick with him. He might be gruff, but deep down he's just a big teddy bear."

"How far down?"

"Really far down. Really, really, _really_ far down." He tossed his thumb at Alexia. "Wake her up and she can come. Better for someone she knows to wake her, and I don't like leaving young ladies in crowded prison mess halls without proper supervision."

"You do not seem like a killer," Zoey said, standing and heading to take her tray to the trash.

Cutter took her untouched tray for her. "I'm not a psycho. Self-defense, remember. I was a black belt and had a sharpshooter rank in rifles. Pistols are even easier. I've learned how to kill men and women. Never thought I'd do it. But that's the thing, isn't it? You never know what you're capable of until your life is in danger. Or the life of someone you care for. Get a move on and meet me by the door."

It only took Zoey a light touch on Alexia's arm to wake her with a gasped scream. Zoey helped her friend to the door, where Cutter was waiting with his shotgun.

"Here," he said, tossing Zoey a pair of pistols.

Zoey took them and glanced from Cutter to the steel guns in her hands. "What do I do with these?"

"Stick them in your pockets, in your belt, down your shirt, in your hand — wherever it is easiest to keep them. Both of you. Once we're outside I'll show you how to reload them. And fire them. Firing them is important. Especially when you aim at the Infected. That is the best use for these weapons. Aiming at the Infected. And then pulling the trigger. And then—"

"Cutter. When do you shut up?" Francis asked, throwing the door open and hitting Cutter in the face. "Oh. Sorry, buddy."

"You don't sound sorry," Cutter muttered nasally.

"I'm not. Okay ladies, let's go."

* * *

Zoey sat next to Francis on the barricade, cradling a hunting rifle in her hands. She had been given the weapon by Francis for no better reason than there were no other guns available. Alexia had been coupled with Cutter on the other side of the makeshift gate, where she gingerly fiddled with an Uzi.

The barricade was a shoddily constructed blockade. It was a few trucks, placed end to end across the prison bridge, their tires deflated — a hastily created iron bar gate with hinges welded to the back sides of the trucks — with four-by-four metal plates welded to the cab roofs. Concrete slanted dividers were shoved against the trucks, long bent iron rods sticking up from newly poured concrete that only looked a few days old. These served as bars for the guards on top of the truck cabs, a form of protection.

"Hey, Zoey," Francis grunted, nudging her out of her thoughts. "Heads up."

"Huh? What?"

Francis growled. "Heads up. Down range." Zoey stared blankly. Francis sighed and twisted her head with one hand, pointing across the bridge into the dim morning mist with the other. "Down range. That's what we call 'away from the prison.'"

"Oh."

Francis waited and then poked her. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"What _am_ I waiting for?"

"You have the scope. You look down there and tell me what you see. I think I saw some figures, but you have the scope so you have to tell us what it is. I can try and break it into smaller words if you want."

Zoey pursed her lips and hefted the rifle butt into her shoulder, sighting down the barrel through the scope. The mist did not clear for her, but the murky shadows of shambling figures leapt closer. Now they were clearly murky shambling shadows, not just possible shambling shadows.

"Well?" Francis asked.

"What am I looking for? I see plenty of people idling about, wandering around. Nothing is coming this way if that's what you were worried about."

"Damn," Francis said. "I was hoping for a scrap."

"You are insane," Zoey said, still watching the Infected at the far end of the bridge. "It's like you find this fun."

"I do. Better than parole. They never let you have fun. Couldn't walk into a bar without the manager hiding the lighters."

"That might be a good — what was that?"

"How should I know? You have the sniper."

Zoey ignored him, peering intently at the anomaly's last appearance. There it was again. A flashing burst. Then steady beams of light — flashlights — cut around the fog. As the lights found figures in the miasma, the flashes came again and again until the shadow forms dropped to the ground.

"You can't see that?" Zoey asked.

They came again, much closer, and the _rata-tat-tat _of machine guns echoed eerily across the bridge.

"Survivors," Francis muttered. "Hey, Cutter. Get back to the mess and rally a few guys; we got incoming Infected." He turned to Zoey, grabbing his auto-shotgun. "You stay here. Cover those guys."

"What about Alex?"

"What about her? She's staying here. Technically to give you cover, but who are we kidding? If I took her with me, she'd probably kill me. Cutter will be back in a minute or two, so sit tight and shoot anything that does not shoot back."

"Where are you going?"

"To welcome the guests, of course. It's what a good host does."

Zoey felt her stomach knot. What if she hit him? What if she hit one of _them_? They were human enough for her to suffer a mental breakdown from the taking of a human life. And what if she did not feel that remorse? What did that say about her?

She swallowed and looked into the scope. _Don't hit Francis. Don't hit Francis. Don't hit survivors. Hit Infected. Hit Infected who look very similar to the people I am not supposed to hit. _

* * *

Bill turned and let a short burst smash an Infected's head open. It was strange. The men in 'Nam never came apart like that. The rounds would bury themselves in the flesh, not tear entire limbs away. He made a note to check the bodies of Infected where he could. Knowing your enemy was the difference between life and death just as often as a weapon was.

"Louis," Bill said, jogging after the young man. "Make sure to stay together. We can't get separated. We're on a bridge, remember. One false step and you're liable to fall right over."

"Right. Sorry."

"Not a problem son. Down."

"Huh?"

Bill shoved Louis down and blasted a charging man in the chest. The chattering gibberish died in a shriek that would have peeled paint.

"Sorry, sir."

Bill sighed. "You don't have to apologize. Aim of the game is to survive. We have to work together. And stop calling me sir."

"Yes, sir. I mean, Bill."

"Better," Bill said, grinning around his cigarette. "Now, come on. We're going to die here if we keep stopping to chat."

"Right."

"Now that was a real sweet moment."

Bill and Louis spun to face the voice, guns raised out of instinct. The biker winced as the flashlights blazed into his eyes.

"Ow! Hey, turn those damn things off."

"You're not Infected, are you?" Bill said, lowering his rifle immediately.

"Do I look like a jabbering idiot, Grandpa?"

"You don't look it, but you still are."

"Look, old man," the other man started. However the expletives died on his lips as a howl rose into the sky. It roiled under the menacing thunder clouds, competing with the rumbles as it shrieked out, reaching for their souls, lusting for their flesh.

The biker started again. "Okay. We can exchange pleasantries later. I'm Francis. Let's go." He turned and sprinted into the fog, toward the prison at the end of the bridge.

Bill and Louis ran after him and then jogged alongside.

"I'm Bill," Bill said. "And this is Louis."

"What are we running from?" Louis asked. They all knew it was rhetorical. Deep down, every human recognized a hunting call when they heard it.

"Infected," Francis said slowing to a quick walk. "It's okay. We're only a second or two from the barricade."

"Barricade?"

"Yeah," Francis said, grinning. The trucks swam into view. "That."

* * *

Time seemed to slow for Zoey. She saw the three men emerge from the mist. She heard the shriek, saw the running shapes, the leaping form. The rifle snapped to her shoulder, a deeper reflex, instinct driven and alien to her. The cracking rifle report licked the air, sending the bullet past Francis' ear, crushing the stalking form behind him.

Francis saw the muzzle flash, felt the bullet whip past his ear, heard the crunch of bullet greeting bone. And the blood spattering the back of his neck.

He spun, his shotgun leveling with his hip. He saw the Infected clawing their way out of the mist, limbs flailing, whipping around, loose, as they ran. Francis pulled the trigger. The mechanism dislodged the shell violently, the shredding spread blasting ten of the close-packed fiends back, off their feet. He noted the other two — Bill and Louis — opening fire to the sides, covering his flanks. If it was planned or instinct, Francis didn't know. He didn't much care, either.

"Move back."

He found his voice and laced the next few seconds with a plethora of colorful metaphors.

"Move back to the barricade."

That was not him. It was the old guy, Bill. But it seemed like a good idea. The fog was getting redder, the gunshots flashing more frequently. An Infected charged him. Francis' shotgun clicked on empty chambers and he readied to butt whip the zombie thing into the next life.

Its skull exploded, its body falling onto his, smearing blood over him.

Then he was backpedaling into the gate. Cutter was standing on the top, M16 ripping into the mob. Several others gunned down the Infected swarming over the truck cabs. The survivors were losing.

"Pull back," Bill yelled.

Francis watched a known murderer and thief — Jack — go down under the tide. Francis let one more shot splice a cluster apart and then turned, gunning over his shoulder as he ran.


	3. Chapter 3

**Divide and Conquer**

The great steel doors clanged shut after Bill. He dumped the man he'd been dragging — who turned out to be a young woman in a pink sweater — and slumped against the wall. His leg was getting to him again. He hadn't run in twenty years and now running was becoming a necessity. The shrapnel was going to be a problem. But he'd had worse.

He spat the cigarette butt out and trod on it with his good foot, scanning the troops he would now have to work with. The ones who had been outside were all panting, faces red and palms sweaty. Bill felt the same. Breath ragged, a twinge starting at the back and working up to a smoker's hacking cough. His legs ached and his hands were numb from the M16's rattle. But he would continue. He had to, if only to prove to himself he would not be beaten by anything less than death.

He heaved to his feet and walked over to the girl he had half dragged out of the mob.

"You okay, miss?" he asked, offering a hand.

The young woman nodded and took his hand. Halfway up, however, a look of shock and horror washed over her face and she let go, thudding back to earth.

"Alex," she cried and scrambled to her feet.

"Who?" Bill asked, watching her shove past a few men and disappear into the crowd.

The biker — Francis — walked over and poked Bill in the chest. "When someone yells 'fall back' people tend to go _away_ from a fight. What the hell were you doing telling us what to do? We could have taken them."

Bill didn't answer; a loud and violent ramming coming from the prison hall doors answered for him. He jerked his thumb at the wrought iron, already showing miniature dents.

"Feel free — Francis, right? — to open up. I'm sure you could take them."

"Hell, yeah. Damn right I could."

Bill sneered as Francis did not move toward the door. He looked around and spotted a table. He walked over and jumped up. The noise was getting deafening: banging fists on metal, shouts of 'what the hell just happened' and general confusion.

"Hey," Bill yelled, trying to make himself heard. "Listen up, people."

No one listened. Bill tried once more before shouldering his M16 and firing a few rounds into the ceiling. The mob turned as one, pistols, rifles, shotguns and heavy melee weapons all going to shoulders, all pointing at each other, Bill, and in other varying directions.

Bill snorted out a puff of smoke. "All jumpy as 'Nams with napalm on the air." He lowered the rifle, careful not to aim at anyone. "Look, convicts. Put down the guns and hard objects. We aren't using them on each other. Right now is not the time to bash the other guy's brains out."

"Unless that guy's Infected." The young man vaulted up next to Bill. "Personally, old man, you don't have the lungs for this shouting stuff. Especially with that smoking habit of yours. I'm Cutter, by the way. Not _a_ cutter; name's Cutter." He turned back to the crowd. The hammering Infected fists settled into a steady rhythm. "Listen up, whack-jobs. You lot are lucky not to be on Death Row. You got a second chance, don't waste it. Listen to the old guy." The M16 lowered steadily. "Or I start making life easier around here. Got it?"

"That won't be necessary," Bill said, putting a hand on Cutter's rifle. "If anything, it'll be counterproductive. I need to know who is in charge."

There was a slight murmuring and then five men walked up.

Bill sighed. Finally, council and democracy. The hellhole needed it, as did the rest of the world.

Then one man — a large burly jock with muscles for his muscles — punched one man in the gut and jumped on another.

"Fight, fight, fight," the mob cheered as the four men — one already out cold — beat the living meat from each other.

Bill slapped a hand to his brow. "Damn monkeys." He gripped Cutter's shoulder. "Help me break this up. No way I can do it alone, and this is wasting time. That horde is not getting smaller with us bashing each other."

"Agreed. Hey, Francis, new guy—" Cutter jabbed a finger at Louis. "Come on, break it up." Cutter followed his own orders and jumped into the fight, getting one man in a headlock, kicking another in the shin while he was at it. Francis and Louis got the other two down and then Bill leveled his M16 at the last one.

"Not another move, dumb-ass," Bill growled. "We do not have the time for this. I asked for a leader, because logically the leader knows about rations and munitions and defenses. You know, the things that _win_ a defensive fight. Is that you?"

"Er…"

"That would be me," Cutter grunted, struggling with his captive, who was starting to go blue. "I don't know offhand, but we had two months at the start of this whole thing, about four days ago. Ammo is what the guards had, but we've got ammo from runs to the city." The headlock victim struggled and stood on Cutter's booted foot. He snarled and tossed his guy away. Cutter's foot shot up between the man's legs and the brute toppled, squeaking. "I hate squirming, jackass," Cutter said, kicking the man. He turned back to Bill. "Defenses consist of these _girls_ and that barricade. We have a mini-gun up top, but ammo is hard to come by. We salvaged rounds for it and if the Infected get in we can put up a good defense in the warden's quarters."

"And die," Bill said, sitting down and noticing his cigarette was out. "Anyone got a light?"

"What do you mean?" Francis asked, folding his arms.

"The city of Xion," Bill said, as if reciting from rote, "is a city approximately half the size of New York City, with a little more than half a million people in population." Bill glanced around at the inmates. "How many you got?"

"Hundred, hundred fifty."

"There's a hundred-_plus_ times that out there, yowling for your blood." Bill fished in his pockets for a match, found one, and struck it on the cement floor. "Think you'll last?"

"No," Cutter said, matter-of-factly. "But what else can we do?"

"A bit fatalistic, aren't you?"

"You like answering questions with questions?"

"Maybe." Bill grinned. "Look. In a group this size, we should be able to make it out of the city. We make for the city exit. Some of us make it, some don't, but at least that's a chance. A better chance than what you lot got here." He straightened. "You in?"

There was silence, permeated by a low sobbing from the back corner. Bill couldn't help but look and found two young women — one the pink sweater girl he had dragged from the mob not five minutes ago, and the other a small brunette, shaking and hyperventilating into a paper bag.

Bill turned back to the convicts. He had seen too much hysteria for his tastes.

They were starting to pick sides. As one, the mob divided down the middle. Cutter and Francis were on one side, along with thirty others. The other seventy or so were on the other, all behind the muscle man who had started the earlier fight.

Bill nodded. "Okay. Cutter, you have any transports?"

"A few prison vans, ATVs, and some regular cars and trucks." Cutter shrugged. "Stripped down most of the cars for parts, though. Height is one of our few advantages, and trucks give us the most."

"You're a tactical thinking man," Bill grunted, shouldering past him. "Louis, stick with me. Cutter, show me what we got. The rest of you start packing gear. The sooner we move, the less time the Infected have to mass."

"Agreed." Cutter slung the M16 over his shoulder and started ordering men left and right, shoving his way through the throng to the other side. "Come on. The motor pool is this way."

Bill and Louis followed, leaving a good thirty people arguing with the other seventy, with Francis the most vocal out of them all.

Cutter paused by the door, then turned to Bill. "Head out this way, I'll catch up. All inside, no Infected, no worries."

Cutter left without a word, pacing the wall. Bill decided to wait for him. Namely because he had no idea of the layout of the prison, but his leg was getting tight again and he needed to get some weight off it.

Cutter walked up to Alexia and Zoey, stopping a few feet away and squatting down. Alexia was not sobbing anymore, and the bag rested in her hands. Zoey glanced at Cutter and then back at Alexia.

"Alex," Zoey said. "I will be right back. Four feet away. You okay?"

"Yeah," Alexia said, pulling her legs up to her chest.

Zoey eyed her for a second and then turned to Cutter. "What do you want?"

Cutter grinned but resisted the urge to make a comment. "What's wrong with her?" he asked instead.

"She's never killed anyone before," Zoey said, looking over her shoulder at Alexia. "I know the Infected aren't human anymore, but they… they look and were human. I wish I had reacted like she had."

"Uncontrollable sobbing and hyperventilation don't suit you Zoey."

"But what does that say about me? I am just as bad as you. A cold blooded killer."

"As good as me," Cutter corrected, grinning. "I never said I didn't feel bad about killing those guys. Zoey, right now, it is not the stone hearted we need. We have plenty of them. But there is nothing wrong with it. Either you were prepared to kill to save your friend and your own life, or your body is shielding your mind from the worst of it. Trust me, there will be time for weepy breakdowns and Zombies Anonymous sessions after we get away from the Infected. Until then, I'm glad I do not have helpless damsels in distress. Despite popular opinion, they are not charming or useful. Just a handful, and loud at that."

Zoey snorted.

Cutter nodded to Alexia. "You stay with her. I'll be back in ten minutes or so. By then she had better be ready to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Any place but here," Cutter responded. "I am not leaving her here with those nut cases waiting to happen. I suggest you come, but I get a feeling that I would be on the floor cradling various parts of my anatomy if I tried to make you do something you didn't want to do."

Zoey glanced at Alex and then at Cutter. "I presume that we are not walking out of here."

"You presume correctly, ZZ." Cutter tossed her a two fingered salute and jogged back to the old man who had dragged Zoey out of the fray, waiting by the door. "Meet us in the garage in twenty. Help Frankie out. He'll appreciate it."

Zoey watched him disappear through the door, followed by the old army guy and the dark-skinned man. "ZZ?"

Cutter sat down next to Bill on the back of an old Ford pickup truck; blue paint dinged and dented through a few days of use in a post-dead world . Francis sat behind him, perched like an ugly black raven on the side board, with Louis facing him. Alexia was curled up in the corner of the flat bed, and Zoey was sitting on the truck cab behind and to her friend's left.

Cutter turned and leaned against the side board. "Those things will kill you, Bill."

"Can it." But Bill's retort was good natured. He took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed it on the cement floor, jumping down and landing on it. "We ready to go?"

"Some of the lads are out," Cutter said, with the casual air of a weather man reporting clear skies with rain pouring down around him. "Cuts our numbers to fifteen."

Francis snarled. "Cowards. Bet all sixteen are crying in their little wussy holes right now."

"Nope," Cutter said, sliding off the truck bed and walking around to the cab. "Blood pools."

They all were silent.

Cutter hefted a crate and handed it up to Francis. "Hunters got them. Upper tier, last guard posting."

"Hunters?" Louis asked, sliding the crate to the end of the truck, next to Alexia.

"The scream-and-jumps," Cutter clarified. "Came in right through the windows. Mind the girl; don't let the stuff drop on her."

"Right, sorry," Louis said, using a band of steel chain to secure the crate.

"Alright," Cutter said, picking up another crate and tossing it to Francis. "You lot are good gunmen, so you four are going in that old jeep there. Alexia, me and John are going in this rust-bucket with a few extra supplies. We'll toss a gun crate in back, a few smoke detectors — at least one in each vehicle; Louis, you double check that — and a pair of gunmen. Alexia will be in front with me, John on the other side — shotgun. Ironic, right."

Bill nodded. "Sounds good. Francis and I will check on the others. Zoey, you any good with cars?"

"Not really."

"Okay. Francis, you'll double check the point cars and Zoey will help me get squared away. Move it people."

Cutter grinned unconsciously. After knowing each other less than fifteen hours, they were working like a well-oiled machine.

"Damn it, Francis. Get off my foot."

"Sorry, ZZ."

"You call me that again and you'll have to ask Bill for some denture paste."

"Watch it, young lady."

Cutter snorted. Working like a rusty machine then, but a machine nonetheless.

He vaulted into the back of the truck and sat, pulling his pistol from its makeshift holster and checking the cartridge.

Alexia's eyes fixed on it and then darted away as he glanced at her.

"You okay, girly?"

"Fine," she squeaked.

Cutter's superior smile faltered and, after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, dissolved completely. "Alexia… what's wrong?"

"I-I… I barely know you… and y-you think I'm going to lay all my problems on you?"

"Yeah, I think you are." He stood and pulled Alexia to her feet as if she were a feather. "Come on. We'll talk about it until John gets here. In the cab."

After a half-hearted attempt to resist, Alexia sat down next to a murderer in the cab of a beat-up and bloody Ford.

"It… it would be pointless to ask you what it's like to kill someone," Alexia said, glaring at him with a surprisingly vivid hatred. "So why would talking to you about my heart-eating guilt help me?"

"Don't you feel a little better already?"

"No."

"Oh… well, if you would feel more comfortable talking to ZZ…"

Alexia let her head fall back, banging a few times against the truck's rear window. "That's just it. She… s-she…"

"She's different."

Alexia glanced at him. Cutter's sardonic and malicious smile was gone, leaving a sincere pain on his face. "What do you—?"

"I mean that you're scared of her," continued Cutter. "As much, if not more than, the Infected. She looks like your life-long friend, but she could kill things that used to be people as if they were insects, not humans in any way, shape or form. And you couldn't. You didn't have the guts to do it, the stomach to say, 'I shot and killed something. Get over it.' You're a sensitive soul, something that has little value to us out here."

He paused, his quick eyes scanning the people moving around in the garage.

"Except you are the most precious thing out here." Cutter looked back at her. "I will do everything I can to protect you. I don't want you to ever let go of that calm, that honest hatred of violence. Put is aside sometimes, sure. But promise me you will never lose it. I feel like half of me is gone, and I know that by protecting you, I can pretend to get back the missing piece."

"What do you mean?"

Cutter sighed. "I killed four men. They broke into my house. My baby sister and my girlfriend were upstairs, my mom in the kitchen. I protected the people I loved, but… I lost something." He glanced at her. "My hands are red in more than a figurative way. I beat them to death. Turned out one was my older brother, drunk like always. I caught him last. He tried to rape my girlfriend, in front of _our_ baby sister." His teeth clenched. "I beat him to death. Not with a bat like the three downstairs. I throttled him until the only thing holding his head to his shoulders was his spine.

"I lost something that day. I've never found it, and I doubt I ever will. But you have it. Something I want to preserve. Because the way my sister looked at me… I never want to be seen like that again."

Alexia stared.

Cutter suddenly laughed, his cocky demeanor sliding back into place as if it never left. "Sorry. I got a bit carried away. But that's me in a nutshell. Emotionally detached. I lost my humanity, my family, the only person on this planet that could actually stand me for more than two seconds. But that's also how I know what you're going through. I went through it too. And so will Zoey. But she's strong, and she cares for the people around her. She'll stay strong so that they can. You have a really good friend there."

A tap on the window made Alexia jump. Cutter reached over and opened the passenger side door. "John, this is Alexia. Alexia, my mate John — embezzlement. We'll be out of this hellhole in less time than you know."

The sun was going down by the time the four trucks rolled into the yard, lining up on the gate. Bill stood up in his seat, turning to view the state of their convoy. Cutter was in front of them, a prison van in front of him, its confines laden with two weeks worth of ammunition and supplies. There was another jeep at the front, six men occupying the small vehicle, all with some sort of shotgun or rifle.

Bill dropped down in his seat next to Louis, who was driving. Bill hefted the old walkie-talkie and thumbed the button three times.

"_Cutter on the squawk-box, Bulldog. What's the go-go?"_

"Cutter, what the hell?" Bill asked, completely confused.

"_Sorry. I just could not resist,"_ Cutter's voice said over the radio. "_But seriously, we ready to go, go, _go_ now so I do not have to look at this drab olive-colored pigpen for another second?"_

"Get her rolling."

"_Roger that."_

Bill sat back, clicking the radio once.

"_Bill, right?"_

"Yeah, Butch. Get going."

"_Okay. Let's get this bastard rolling."_

Bill pulled his thumb from the radio and glared at Francis. "Do you lot have a book of urban synonyms that you pass around?"

"Why?"

"You all talk alike."

"Shut it, Old Man."

The radio clicked four times. Bill picked it up. "Go."

"_This is going to get ugly."_

"What's going to get ugly, Butch?"

"_The zombies are all over the place. We try to open the gate; we are going to get swamped. Ideas?"_

"You ever want to ram a gate, Butch?"

"_Sure but… hey, I like the way you think, old man."_

"Can people stop calling me that," Bill snarled.

A horn blared and then the convoy moved. Bill had to admit, loathed as he was, that it startled him a bit. The convoys in 'Nam had been slow, heavy things, with troops walking alongside, wary of moving bushes and jumping at bird calls.

The Survivor convoy roared to life, bolted forward, and smashed through the wire gate that blocked the parking area from the outside road. There was a united howl from the Infected at the noise and they lurched forward, running haphazardly into the trucks.

Guns flared to life, but there was little time for exchanging pleasantries as the jeeps and trucks passed by, making more than a few zombies one with pavement.

"_Yee-ha,_" someone yelled over the radio, making it buzz. "_You see that one. It just plain ex-plod-ed. We are free and clear, dudes and dudettes."_

"We are not free and clear," Bill snarled into the radio. "We are free and clear when we are out of this city and meet people who are not Infected. Keep your heads in the game."

"_Sir, yes, sir," _came Cutter's cheery tone. A second later however, it was more subdued. "_Hey, Bill, I got a minor problem."_

"Like what?"

"_There's a Hunter on my hood."_

"Well, shoot him off."

Bill watched as the Infected crawled over the top of the truck, a shotgun blast peeling the paint from the top of the cab. The Infected shrieked and collapsed, falling off the side and splattering onto the road.

"_Nice shot, John."_

"_Not a—"_

Bill did not even bother freezing up. He snatched the rifle from the back seat and stood, propping his arms on the windshield's upper frame. It had come from nowhere. A long slimly appendage had shot from the darkness, into Cutter's truck. John's strangled swears were evidence that it was 'disgusting as shit' and 'choking the hell' out of him.

Other yells and screams from the radio told them something, but as to what it told them, Bill did not have time to figure out. Instead he focused on tracing the string of muscle back to its start point. A tall gangly man stood hunched on a watchtower, the slimy thing extending from his mouth. Once more Bill did not take time to gather intelligence on his enemy. He took the shot, plowing a .44 caliber bullet through the Infected's head.

It promptly exploded in a haze of thick smog.

"_John, you okay?"_

"_Fine. Whoever did that, thanks. Ugh… I think it's a tongue. Disgusting. Hey, Cutter, she's not going to throw up on me, is she?"_

"_Alexia, try to hold it down a bit."_

"_This is Point,"_ Butch yelled into the clutter of noise. "_There is an army of the bastards on the bridge. Follow us through; we'll try and find the easiest route."_

"You are clear to go ahead," Bill said, already turning to Zoey. "Zoey, put a few holes in them. Take your time and pick off the more obvious ones. I have a feeling this is about to get complicated. Francis, I want you to clear as many out on our left as possible. I'll take care of our right. Louis, keep that Uzi on hand, but trust Francis to keep them off."

"Got it," Zoey said, standing and bracing herself as the hunting rifle began to report kills.

"Got it covered," Francis growled, already spraying bullets in the direction of the Infected army.

Bill leaned out one side and cocked the shotgun. The mist was heavy, but Bill's trained eyes picked out the situation in a second. They were headed to the bridge, and were already on it as the Infected charged across the suspension bridge. There were thousands of them. Tall and short, man and woman, stout and thin. Hundreds of hundreds of them.

Closer.

And closer.

And closer.

And then they bumped, the shotgun sounded and blood sprayed, spattering the jeep and occupants, bits and pieces of flesh and bone scattering over them and the Infected, and the pavement.

And then they were in the thick, guns blazed and roared and flared and then they were out, Infected scattering over the road and under wheels as the four trucks bowled over them. A few clung to the hoods and sides of the vehicles, but a few pistol shots and the dead fell to the sides.

Bill reloaded the shotgun, kneeing the radio on as he did so. "Damage report?"

"_We lost one,"_ Butch said. "_No injuries, no vehicle damage. Point is good to go."_

"_Supply is bloody but good to go, and go fast."_ That was the prison van, whose driver Bill remembered as being a shifty, over-compulsive kind of man.

"_Cutter here. We are okay, a bit shaken and… well, disgusted, but in working order."_ In the background, Bill could here Cutter murmur, "_Alexia, it's fine. It's just a little bit of blood. Okay, yes, that is brain but… John, don't be a baby. It's only vomit. Dude, man up."_

They were entering the city proper now, with tall buildings rising fast and the fading light was lost quickly under the concrete monoliths. The alleyways were darkest of all, and more than once Bill thought he saw glints in the gloom.

Bill turned and glanced around. Zoey was grinning, slipping another clip of bullets into the slot on the hunting rifle. Likewise, Francis was pleased, slipping shells into the shotgun, murmuring sweet nothings to it. Louis was grinning like an idiot, too. It was obvious the civilians thought the worst was over, and were very pleased with themselves.

But Bill knew that was when it was most dangerous. When things got simple, people made mistakes.

"Keep your heads in the game," he bellowed over the wind whipping at their open-aired transport. "We are not out of it yet."

"Come on, Old Man. We just plowed over a thousand of those zombie bitches," Francis said. "What's to get worried about?"

"_What the fuck is that?"_

Bill spun around. "I hate you, Francis."

"Oh… crap," was Francis' epiphany.

Ahead of them a massive hulking form was rushing at them from the darkness. It was twice as tall as a human, with at least five times the muscle mass. It roared and aimed to shoulder the point car out of the way. Butch proved his worth as a driver by twisting to one side and then swerving around the giant, tricking it to aim the opposite way. The prison van was saved only by the point car's gunmen pouring hot shot into the Infected's back, keeping its short attention span on them.

It roared again and smashed its fists into the ground, ripping up a slab of concrete and hefting it over its tiny head.

"_Crap… crap, crap, crap crap crap!"_ Cutter's truck spun out as the concrete impacted the ground next to them, the back end fish-tailing into the Infected. The truck dented and the Infected snorted, unfazed by the half-ton of metal smashing into its chest.

It raised its fists.

And got a bullet in the eye.

The Infected snarled, back-stepping and switching targets in the blink of a sightless eye. Bill aimed and let loose with the shotgun as fast as he could pump new shells in. As soon as the eight shells were embedded in the giant he chucked the shotgun in back and hauled his M16 into hand.

In this time Zoey had unleashed the rest of the hunting rifle ammunition into the thing's head and had pulled out an Uzi.

"How is that thing not dead yet?" Louis asked, spinning the wheel back and forth, evading a chunk of rock that was hurled at them.

"_Thanks, Zoey,"_ Cutter said, the truck squealing past them as all four survivors continued to fire at the Infected. "_Saved our hides with that shot. See you on the outbound."_

"You're welcome," Zoey shouted, firing in controlled bursts as the Infected barreled down after them.

"Go _down_," Francis snarled, switching to a loaded shotgun at his feet as the behemoth charged to within six feet, its arms flailing after them, shaking the ground. "Go — _blam_ — down — _blam _— you — _blam_ — dirty— _blam_ — son — _blam —_ of a — _blam — _bitch!"

The gargantuan Infected moaned as Francis' sixth shell pounded into its chest. It slowed, arms waving forlornly, blood oozing in thick streams from holes all over its body. The Infected slumped, fell to its knees and then collapsed on its face.

"Boo-ya," Francis yelled, pumping his fist in the air. "Take that, sucker!"

Bill sighed, and switched the radio on. "We are in the clear for now. Report."

"_Point is fine. What the hell was that?"_

"_Supply is good. I have to correct Point. It's 'What the _fucking_ hell was that?'"_

"_Cutter here. Thanks again, Zoey. Nice shot."_

"_Whoa, hold the phone. That the girl in pink? Girl you just shot up like ten points on the hotness meter."_

"_Butch, not only was that a bad pun but… hotness meter?" _Cutter snorted. "_You are so lame."_

Bill grinned and leaned back, relaxing for two seconds, letting the adrenaline clear out of his head.

That was when a Hunter screamed, shooting out of the darkness of an alleyway. He landed on the hood of Bill's jeep, was promptly shot by Francis and slid off under the wheels. The jeep bumped and swerved, smashing into a wall. There was a too familiar roar from the other side and Bill swore.

Another giant Infected smashed through the barrier, hefted the jeep backward and over, sending it into the front of a furniture store.

Bill's last sight was that of a hideous neon-yellow flowered sofa with a sickening pea-green backdrop.

Then blackness.


End file.
